


Jester

by HewerOfCaves



Series: B2MeM 2019 Stories [5]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Implied Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-23 19:56:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18156338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HewerOfCaves/pseuds/HewerOfCaves
Summary: Maedhros and two conversations he has after the death of two kings.Written for:Fëanorian weekDay 1- Maedhros - >Childhood,Kingship,Torture, Adjusting/Coping, Unity, BeautyBack to Middle Earth MonthThe Russingon CardI16: Princes & Kings





	Jester

**Author's Note:**

> Not a native speaker, not beta'd.

Fëanor’s crown didn’t fit Maedhros well. Curufin announced that he would rework it and immediately took off to the forge.

“You are not going to wear father’s crown,” Maglor said with certainty.

“No one can wear it.” Maedhros ran his fingers through his hair. The ash had been washed out, but the feeling lingered. “But Curvo needs something to work on.”

“Sooner or later you will have to tell him,” Maglor said.

“I will when I return. Although I have half a mind to order you to do it.”

“I strongly believe it is a king’s duty.”

“You will be the king if I don’t return.”

Maglor stared at him. “It is not funny, Nelyo.”

“No? I thought it was.”

Maglor shook his head and helped his brother to put on his breastplate.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked.

“No, but what choice do I have? The Oath constrains me. If there is a chance to recover at least one Silmaril…”

“The Enemy lies, Nelyo! That’s what he does.”

“I know that, little brother,” Maedhros said, putting his hands on Maglor’s shoulders, “But you forget that I also can lie. I am taking greater force than agreed upon.” 

He tried to give his brother his most charming and carefree smile. Maglor didn’t look impressed. 

“I do hope your first noteworthy deed upon taking the crown will not be getting yourself killed,” he said.

“Well, if that happens, at least the new king will have the chance to learn from the mistakes of his predecessor,” Maedhros said.

He tried to laugh, but stopped abruptly, shocked how fake and strained it sounded. When had been the last time he had laughed sincerely? He didn’t remember. His laughter had been drowned in blood and burnt in fires. He turned away, unable to bear Maglor’s concerned look, silently asking him not to say anything. Maglor didn’t, and Maedhros himself broke the silence.

“You know I have to do it, Káno,” he said, tracing the hem of the dark red cloak he was going to wear, “Father would want me to.”

“Father would smite the messenger on the spot and himself deliver its head to the Enemy,” Maglor said, “He would not negotiate with him. I don’t see why you should.”

“I am not him!” Maedhros cried loud enough for Maglor to flinch. “I cannot afford myself the luxury of doing what he did and charging on the Enemy’s fortress to go out in a blaze of glory. I will do the only thing I can as Fëanáro’s eldest son and heir.”

Maglor bowed his head, and Maedhros knew he would argue no more. Instead, Maglor took the cloak Maedhros was crumpling in his hands and fastened it on his shoulders.

“You look most regal,” he said, “I can never pull off this color, so come back, will you?”

Maedhros gave his brother a smile, a genuine one for a change. “I will,” he said, “We cannot have you demoralizing our people with your disharmonious color combinations.”

Later, when the cloak had been ripped to pieces, and Maedhros, bound, was being dragged to Angband, he imagined Maglor stressing over what to wear for his coronation and cursing his brother for leaving it to him.

That struck him as especially funny, and he laughed and laughed until he was silenced.

—

Maedhros knows that the lords of the House of Fingolfin will deem him suspicious if he stays in the shadows, and obnoxious if he is too noticeable. It is a delicate situation to handle, but Maedhros doesn’t mind. It gives him something else to focus on besides the overwhelming grief he perceives from the newly crowned king.

He swears his fealty and shows the right amount of humility and strength to appease even the lords most disgruntled because of the presence of a Fëanorian among them. He falls behind when the others leave the hall, and slowly approaches the throne.

Fingolfin’s crown sits heavily on Fingon’s head, but he bears it with a dignity that makes Maedhros’s heart ache. His shoulders are rigid, and his look is distant, though it clears when Maedhros stands next to the throne.

“Thank you for coming all the way here, especially during these difficult times,” Fingon says.

His voice is small and tired, not at all like the king’s voice he was using just a few minutes before.

“How could I not?” Maedhros says, “You are my savior and my king.”

Fingon’s shoulders slump. “Will you help me?” he asks softly.

“I will serve you faithfully like I served your father.”

“I am not my father, and I need more than that.” Fingon inclines his head to the right, close to Maedhros, though not quite touching. “Besides, you do what you wish up in your Himring anyway.”

Maedhros's mouth curls up in a smile, and he slips his fingers inside Fingon’s stuffy collar. He curls them around Fingon’s nape, and the High King of the Noldor closes his eyes and leans into the touch. 

“This was never supposed to happen,” he says quietly after a while, “I was never supposed to be a king, I never wanted it. Even when the crown passed to my father, it never crossed my mind that one day I would wear it. I thought he would reign forever.” Hot tears drip on the rich embroidery of his ceremonial dress. “Why did he do it?” he whispers, “Surely he knew it was certain death. Why would he?”

Maedhros’s throat is dry. He grips Fingon’s shoulder gently. “Have you ever known such despair that you see only one way out, Findekáno?” he asks.

“Once,” Fingon says, “But it was only a brief moment.”

Maedhros nods. “I pray you will never have to know it again.”

Fingon looks up at him with shining eyes. “Promise me that you will not give in to despair,” he says.

“How can I while you are with me?” Maedhros answers.

Fingon rests his forehead on Maedhros’s arm. The crown slips down from his head. Maedhros catches it around his right arm and stares at it for a moment. He has never seen it up close. It’s beautifully made, in silver and gold threads weaved together around a deep blue gem in the center.

“I will give it back to you if you just say the word,” Fingon says.

Maedhros puts it aside. “It is mine no longer,” he says, “I did not lend it to your father. I did not lay down any condition for its return. I renounced it. Permanently. It is yours. I cannot take it from you, but I will help you bear its burden.”

“I will need your counsel and your guidance.” Fingon takes his hand. “And I will need you.”

“Everything I have and everything I am is yours.”

Fingon’s smile is barely noticeable, but it’s there. “When you speak so, you make me believe I can do anything,” he says.

“One thing you can surely do is reign longer than I did,” Maedhros says.

Fingon sighs and shakes his head, but his smile remains.


End file.
